Defeated
by Fire The Canon
Summary: Voldemort only had one fear other than death: being defeated. For Gamma.


_**Written for the lovely Gamma Orionis for the Fic Exchange of Epic Proportions**_

_**Written for Smeagolia's Phobia Challenge (Kakorrhaphiophobia; fear of failure or defeat)**_

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><p><strong>Defeated<strong>

When he heard of the prophecy his first thought was to kill the boy. He didn't know who that child was, who he belonged to, or what kind of life he led. He didn't even care. When one of his servants told him that this boy could be his downfall, there was no other choice but to kill him.

When he learned that there were two boys fitting the prophecy he felt lost. Of course, he would never admit that to anyone, but there was a niggling annoyance in the back of his mind that questioned if he had chosen the right one.

_Kill them both_, another voice said. That was the simple suggestion. If he killed them both then he won either way.

He chose one, though. An only child with young parents. He went by the name of Harry Potter.

They went into hiding.

When that happened, all he felt was rage. How had they known? Someone must have told them.

But who?

He couldn't quite understand how they had come to learn of his plan, or how they had managed to go undetected. It bothered him. If this boy lived and grew up, then the prophecy would come true.

He couldn't have that.

Then believe it or not, along came knocking one of their friends. He appeared in a quivering mess, claiming he knew where the Potters were, and how to find them. That same man would later claim he was tortured to reveal their whereabouts, but that wasn't the case at all. He had never seen someone more willing to give information.

He went to kill the boy, and he almost succeeded, too. The father was easy; he didn't even have a wand with him. The father was dead before he'd even opened the door properly.

The mother was more difficult. She refused to step aside. He hadn't cared whether she lived or died – he would have let her live had she stepped aside – but she became a nuisance.

He killed her too.

Then the boy, the defenceless, poor boy was parentless – orphaned – and yet he was the most difficult to kill. When he spoke those two words, he felt something happen. The child in front of him didn't go limp like his parents had. No. The room went green, and then there was a bang. And then… and then he was nothing.

He could still hear, still see, still feel, but he was _nothing_. He felt all the power he had gained over the years drain from him that night. He felt weak, pathetic, and defeated. Everything he never wanted to be.

He had to rely on another to survive.

It was the most disgusting feeling one had ever felt. Depending on – _needing_ – another to keep him alive; it made him weak, powerless.

He was nothing.

And then he met that boy again, and he was defeated once more. An eleven-year-old who hadn't known an ounce of magic a year ago had beaten him again, just by touching him. It had burned through his skin, it had hurt. He was gone again.

He had been defeated once more.

Even when he rose to power again – when some of his followers returned to him – he still couldn't defeat that boy. He learnt it was a mark his mother had left on him (a mark he could not touch).

Fear coursed through him, silently overpowering his thoughts, his actions. Everything. He couldn't control it; it was just there. If those who respected him – whether out of loyalty or fear – realised, he would lose it all. Their lord would not be the high and mighty person they thought he was anymore.

He kept his fears to himself.

The boy then discovered his secret. Many had already been destroyed. With each one he killed he could feel himself growing weaker.

He was losing.

"We'll kill him!" he instructed those who were still loyal to him. It was the only option. _Neither can live while the other survives_.

The boy would die.

He thought he had succeeded, too. Victory was his. He made that big oaf carry him back, fat tears dripping down his face as he held him. Everyone was his now. He had complete control.

"No!"

He watched as the boy he had just killed leapt to his feet. His wand was out of his pocket before anyone could realise, and they were fighting again.

This time one-on-one.

There was no way that this child could kill him. He was invincible. Even if he had discovered his secret, even if he had killed all those little parts of his soul he had hidden away for years, he was still stronger. This boy was weak – he felt things that made him weak.

Love, loyalty, devotion.

He would be beaten.

But, no. Wait a moment. The wand had failed him. The very wand he had spent months searching for, tortured people for, killed for… it wasn't doing what he wanted.

It was supposed to be invincible. He was supposed to be able to kill whomever he pleased. But he was dead. Their wands connected, and slowly but surely, he could feel himself losing control. He was weakening, being defeated.

He was failing.

_No! No, no, no! _

Little voices screamed inside him, telling him he could not die; but they were wrong. He had been wrong – he had _done_ something wrong.

Weakness.

He was weak, and that weakness had led to his death. Everything slowly faded from his sight: the boy, those loyal to the boy, those loyal to him. It all faded until it was black. He was nothing.

Nothing but a lifeless body now.

He died that night, and he had died unwillingly. Maybe others would have greeted death as an old friend – welcomed it – but that was not the case for the most powerful wizard on earth.

He died that night, and he died with a cold, stone heart that was filled with fear.

He died that night with the fear that he had been defeated.

He died knowing that he had failed.

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><p><em><strong>I think I like this. I thought the prompt was fitting to Voldemort, anyway. I hope you all liked it, and I hope you liked it especially Gamma *bites nails* I'm not sure.<strong>_


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